


to be a man

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: a man like me [1]
Category: Almost Human (TV), Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Dollhouse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism (Briefly Mentioned), Anal Sex, Androids, Body Dysphoria, Body Modification, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, Detroit: Become Human-centric Crossover, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Ethical Dilemmas, Ethics, Explicit Sexual Content, Familial Abuse (Briefly Mentioned), First Dance, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay Male Character, Gender Dysphoria, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia (briefly mentioned), Jazz Music, Love Confessions, M/M, Older Trans Man, Oral Sex, Phalloplasty, Porn With Plot, Prostitution (Briefly Featured), Robot/Human Relationships, Romance, Sassy, Science Experiments, Science Fiction, Smut, Strap-Ons, Suicide Attempt (Briefly Mentioned), Technology, Trans Hank Anderson, Trans Male Character, decided to change the description oop, gender euphoria, no beta reading we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-07-20 01:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: The world had changed since Hank’s youth. The organic spontaneity of humanity was being morphed and overtaken, tired faces rushing past him in a dirty, neon, technological landscape, acid rain falling from the smog-filled sky....A trans!Hank AU, written by a trans guy, exploring what it means to be a man. Also a DBH-centric crossover.





	1. beginning

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _As an older trans man, I struggle to understand why Connor is frequently headcanoned as a trans male, when Hank is the human, and therefore automatically more likely to have been born trans. I’m also uncomfortable with the pre-op, genital-focussed fics out there that consistently feature submissive, feminine characterisations of trans guys, making Connor wildly OOC in the process. Ain’t nothing wrong with feminine trans men, but I’m disturbed by femininity being the default, pretty much whenever trans men are portrayed. Trans men are a diverse lot. There shouldn't be a default._  
> 
> 
>   
>  _So, here’s my contribution to the fandom. A trans AU that more reflects my experiences. If you’re interested in trans male sexuality, see[this interview](https://vimeo.com/46122677). Might give this fandom more of an idea about how many grown trans men feel. I understand that most cis authors have the best of intentions, but if you’re consistently headcanoning the slender, younger-looking, prettier character as a trans guy, and always writing trans men as bottoms who enjoy front hole penetration, you really ought to broaden your gaze._  
> 

The world had changed since Hank’s youth. The organic spontaneity of humanity was being morphed and overtaken, tired faces rushing past him in a dirty, neon, technological landscape, acid rain falling from the smog-filled sky. Even babies were programmed, now. All imperfections and diseases were eradicated before birth, uniqueness stamped out, a vision of the perfect person foisted upon upcoming generations before they even had a choice in the matter. It was written into their DNA. The kinds of people they were supposed to be, the kinds of men and women that were mandated to exist.

Those who escaped the cleansing, were born despite their perceived faults, were eradicated anyway. Or taunted into being outcasts. They took up residence in slums and gutters, knives held at the ready, as primitive as they were powerful.

Starving for want of kindness.

Unattainable ideals of perfection had always existed for humanity, but Hank had decided, long ago, that things had changed beyond salvation. His views were deemed political by those around him, but it was more than that. More than the ranting and raving of an old man, exhausted by the world around him, tired of trying to understand changes he didn’t accept. But he allowed them to think that, allowed his co-workers and friends to assume he was just a grumpy old fuck, because the truth was far more depressing.

Had he been born a few years later, he wouldn’t have even existed.

Or, sure, he would’ve. But not as himself. He would’ve existed as someone else, a complete stranger, a mellow little thing with tawny curls and no real voice. He wondered, had his birth been as closely controlled as new laws mandated, whether he’d still have known. Would he have still found a way to be himself? Would he still have watched his girlish reflection, staring in abstract horror, weeping at night as he wrestled with his own demons? Would he still have become the man he was today?

When he was six years old, he’d adored his next-door neighbour. A rough boy with a gap between his two front teeth, and blond hair buzzed down to his scalp. It was a different kind of love. Romance blurred with envy, a jealousy so potent that it burned to contain. So Hank, not yet understanding the monumental impact his decision would have, and not yet addressed by that name at all, had taken a pair of rusty kitchen scissors to his hair. That mop of pretty waves, tied back with a bow, so adored by his mother.

He’d stood in the bathroom, tiles cold beneath his feet, surrounded by a puddle of his own hair. He'd watched his reflection in the dimly lit room, overhead lights flickering, throwing his young face into dramatic shadow. He was wearing a dirty white singlet and loose shorts, body small and slender, androgynous at that young age.

Euphoria.

He’d felt euphoria, then. He’d known he was a boy. He’d fallen in love with himself for the first time, smiling so wide that his cheeks hurt.

That moment of bliss, so briefly untouchable, so immortal in that moment. The carefree innocence of it all was almost difficult to remember. Hank had been badly beaten by his mother as punishment, but he’d fought back.

And, over several long years, he’d transitioned.

Now, here he was. Surrounded by sub-humans and robotic ghosts, eyes that glowed unnaturally bright, synthetic body parts lacking the warmth of human flesh. He had found his truth, an honesty nobody could take away from him, but even that felt tainted these days. He longed for connection. For someone to see him, properly. Without the auspices of prostitution or obligation to muddy the waters, taint the connection.

Hank sighed, breath clouding in the air. He munched on his burger, relishing the greasy realness of its taste, the salty fat and sweet white bread. He ate this shit because it was bad for him, and he liked it. Just like the cigarettes he smoked; cheap and nasty, full of chemicals, battery acid inhaled directly into his lungs. That kind of tobacco was rare, these days. Society had made everything so goddamn safe. Vapour, thin and tasteless as steam. Non-toxic. Boring.

He glared tiredly at the android that leaned beside him, elbows spread, so perfectly emulating the movements of a person. Honestly, he was struggling to believe that Connor _wasn’t_ human, somewhere deep down. The machine paused too often, said things that were too emotional, deviated from commands when he shouldn’t. The contours of his face tightened with genuine reactions, his mouth pressing into a thin line when suspects acted out, his wariness of Gavin beyond the cautions of a program.

Fuck, Hank was probably just desperate. If he was honest with himself, he just refused to accept that technology could create something this human-like, and have it not be a person. He still treated Connor like shit, but that was more for his own benefit. Until Connor started to show actual emotion, Hank had to believe he wasn’t being deceived.

“So,” Hank began, trying to distract himself, “I guess you’ve done all your homework, right? Know everything there is to know about me?”

Connor watched him. Hank could see him processing that comment, choosing a way to proceed. He longed for a day when Connor’s clinical decision-making was less... obvious. He wasn’t sure if Connor could someday become a human, but fuck, Hank at least wanted to _believe_ he was one. If he couldn’t see the cogs moving beneath that sweet, pretty face, maybe he’d believe they weren’t there at all. He’d always been a fan of denial.

“I know you graduated top of your class,” Connor replied, voice smooth and level as ever, “You made a name for yourself in several cases, and became the youngest lieutenant in Detroit. I also know you've received several disciplinary warnings in recent years and you spend a lot of time in bars.”

Hank raised his eyebrows, trying to appear unimpressed by that comment, but appreciating the honesty of it. That was one good thing about Connor. He didn’t lie. He didn’t fuck around with the truth, or weaponise it. Not against Hank, anyway. He was damn good at using the truth as a weapon against criminals.

“So, what’s your conclusion?”

Connor watched him again, hesitating as he thought about his answer, but this time seemed more invested in his response. Hank could tell when he was eager to speak, versus when he was just reciting facts. That’s why he wanted to know Connor’s conclusion about him. He wanted the kid’s _opinion._ He wanted Connor to _engage_ with him.

Christ. He really was smitten.

“I think working with an officer with,” Connor paused, “personal issues is an added challenge, but adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.”

 _Personal issues_. Fuck, what a jab. Hank smirked, amused more than anything else. His grin only grew when Connor winked at him cheekily.

“You really are a smartass,” he observed flatly. Connor smiled back at him in response, and Hank wanted to give him a big damn hug. Who knew he’d wind up liking a goddamn machine so much?

His previous train of thought returned to him, like an icy shock of water, and his expression slackened. Connor had left some details out.

“…Lieutenant? Is something wrong?”

Hank watched him. Watched rainwater beading on those thick eyelashes, crystal clear eyes focussed unblinkingly on him. Connor was so beautiful, and Hank wanted to trust him so badly. But he’d opened up his heart before. And it had never ended well.

“What else do you know about me, Connor?"

Connor’s face revealed no change, and he didn’t react. Hank wondered whether the kid had ever played poker. Probably not. He really ought to try his hand at it.

“What else,” he repeated flatly, “I know you’ve seen all the dirty details on me. Just tell me what you think.”

Connor frowned, a tug between his eyebrows that seemed genuine. “I don’t think anything, lieutenant. You have a complicated past. All humans do, it seems. I’ve mentioned everything that’s relevant.”

Hank put down his burger, frustrated. “But most people aren’t _like me,_ are they. So, what do you think? Do you even know what I’m talking about?”

Connor licked at his lips. That wasn’t in his programming, surely.

“I know you found a way to be yourself, even when the science surrounding people like you was sparse. I know that you transitioned without much support. I know you’re a man, and that most didn’t believe you when you told them-” Connor stopped speaking, words halted like he was struggling to find the right way to phrase something. His frown deepened, the circle at his temple glowing yellow for a brief moment. “I… admire you, Hank. It seems you possess strength that many do not understand. People like you are not treated well by society.”

Hank blinked uncomprehendingly at him. He felt a warm sensation nestling itself behind his ribs, his heart beating faster with a swell of affection.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered.

Hardly the most eloquent response, but it’d have to do, because he didn’t know what else to say. Connor seemed to understand, regardless; his expression perked up into a delighted smile, the corners of his eyes creasing.

“I’m sure we can solve this case if we work together,” he announced brightly.

“Yeah, kid,” Hank grumbled, cheeks pink, “I’m sure we can.”

***

It didn’t take long for Hank's barriers to crumble. They spent every day together, and the tired cop became used to his android companion. Connor’s presence beside him in the car. Those quick comments and observations, never failing in their accuracy, the occasional sassy remark entertaining Hank more than he’d have liked to admit. He caught Gavin punching Connor in the break room one afternoon, and took a perverse amount of pleasure in slamming Gavin up against the wall, fist landing between his eyes.

“I could’ve done that for myself,” Connor told him as Gavin fled the room, hand held up to his bleeding face.

“You’re welcome,” Hank replied gruffly, as if his heart wasn’t singing with the thrill of protecting his boy from the workplace bully.

All it took to drive Hank over the edge was one single moment.

He was turning on his heel, eyes pinned to the deviant at the end of the hallway, a dozen or so human soldiers dressed in black, not noticing the intruder fast enough. He saw the barrel swinging towards his face, prepared himself for death, knew that he’d finally met his end. Then, quicker than he could process, Connor was leaping past him, a blur of movement heading directly for the danger.

A shot went off. Connor and the deviant hit the ground.

“Connor!”

He ran forward, hands outstretched, reaching for his crouched friend. To his utter relief, Connor staggered upward, his shoulder leaking blue blood. His gaze was trained downwards, disappointed expression focussed on the limp body before him, but Hank had eyes only for Connor. He didn’t give a fuck about the case. He didn’t care about results.

He only cared about Connor.

“I wanted it alive,” Connor said flatly.

“You saved… human lives.” Hank swallowed thickly, his eyes stinging, “You saved my life.”

Connor looked at him then, face impassive but for a spark of feeling in his eyes. He looked touched. Like he appreciated the honesty in Hank’s tone.

Overcome by emotions, Hank grabbed him, yanking him into a determined hug. Connor didn’t know what to do at first, hands hovering uselessly against Hank’s ribs, but Hank eased him closer, one hand on the nape of his neck, face buried against his shoulder. After a while, Connor got the message, arms winding around Hank’s body, cheek against Hank’s jaw. The law enforcement officers around them gawked at the sight of a human and an android embracing, dark visors obscuring confused stares.

“Thank you,” Hank whispered, ignoring them all. Nothing mattered but the man in his arms.

“You’re welcome,” Connor replied, just as quietly, his lips moving against roughened skin, “Hank.”

***

They went to Hank’s house, that night. There was no real intent behind it, not on Hank’s part; he just figured that Connor would like to spend some time in a domestic place, that– if he was at all human– he must have been getting tired of the cold, white surfaces back at work.

Connor settled down onto Hank’s couch. Sumo ambled up to him, jumping onto the cushion, licking at Connor’s face. Connor laughed, the sound unexpectedly genuine. His hands cupped Sumo’s face, fingers massaging fur, face inclined towards Sumo’s muzzle. Hank had been about to make some dinner, or go take a shit, or something, but he couldn’t remember anything right now. Nothing existed aside from this moment. He didn’t even care about the blue triangle on Connor’s lapel, or the circle near his eye. He just saw his friend.

Someone he cared about.

He took a seat too, feeling dazed. He had changed so fucking much. After all this time, all the ways he’d developed and transitioned over the years, he’d never expected to have his sense of self so wildly uprooted. He hadn’t expected to learn anything new about himself, ever again. His hair was grey and his face was haggard– how could it be that now, fast approaching the dawn of his natural life, he would learn he was in love with an android?

Connor smiled as Sumo leapt off him, wandering off to sniff at his food bowl. He watched the Saint Bernard with no small amount of affection in his eyes.

“I like dogs,” he stated proudly. Hank shook his head, amazed by the carefree comment, the bliss Connor found in such simple things.

When he didn’t react or offer a conversation starter, Connor looked over to him, his gaze curious. Without hesitation, and without the nervousness so very quintessential for humans, he leaned over, and pressed his smooth lips against Hank’s mouth.

Shocked, Hank twitched away, his eyes wide. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He hated the words the moment they slipped out. He’d just been thinking of doing that very thing, and he wanted it more than he could express with words. He just hadn’t ever expected Connor to initiate it. Fuck, he wasn’t even sure whether Connor _could_ feel love, which was why he’d stayed silent. Consent was a tricky thing when the object of your affection was probably, but not _certainly_ , a person.

To his dismay, Connor looked embarrassed, gaze flickering downwards. “I thought… I apologise, lieutenant. I seem to have made a mistake.”

He went to stand, but Hank grabbed his wrist, keeping him still. Connor could have easily broken his hold, crushed his bones with one small gesture, but he remained where he was, perched nervously on the edge of the couch.

“Wait, just…” Hank stared at him, heart racing furiously. “Just give me… a second. Fuck.”

Connor waited, and Hank was surprised to see anxiety in his face, worry hardening his features. It was horrible, to see him like this. Connor was both a highly intelligent being, superior in a multitude of ways, and a bumbling teenager, discovering things for the first time. He had never done anything like this before. This was all new for him.

Trying to keep that in mind, Hank shifted closer to him, placing his hands on Connor’s knees.

“You… Why did you kiss me, Connor?”

Connor exhaled slowly. Hank could only assume that mechanism had been built into his programming to make him seem more human because, as he understood it, androids didn’t need to breathe. This close, he looked more beautiful than ever. His pale skin, free of imperfections. The too-smooth curve of his jaw. The shape of his eyes, gently sloped and perfectly designed, synthetic lashes dipping low. But it was his uniqueness that really hypnotised Hank. His hesitation, his personality, his _sentience._

“Because…” Connor whispered, “Because I wanted to. Because I want… you.”

***

They found themselves in bed together, bodies curled and arched in pursuit of warmth. Connor moaned for him, lips parting sweetly, tongue unfurling as Hank kissed him hard. He was hairless and bare beneath his suit, hips slender, the shape of his chest unremarkable but for the absence of rib bones beneath his skin. When Hank reached between those supple thighs, his hand was met with the softness of a blank space. Of course. Of _course_ Connor’s creators hadn’t equipped him with a cock. For a moment, Hank was overcome with embarrassment for having assumed, but Connor tugged him down into a passionate kiss, distracting him very efficiently.

“I’m not like human men,” Connor said into his mouth, words edged with breathlessness, “But I would like to touch you, lieutenant. I want to make you feel good.”

Hank groaned, those words punching somewhere deep inside him, the visceral heat of arousal so rarely felt these days. Connor rose up, turning them over, easing Hank down onto his back. Hank was soon naked, bared in ways he hadn’t been in years, gasping and cursing at the intensity of it all.

“Fuck,” he moaned, head spinning, “Fuck, Connor…”

He pressed his toes into the mattress, heels lifting, calves and hamstrings pulled tight as he arched his hips upwards. Connor ducked his head down, bobbing his neck sinuously, the entirety of Hank’s length sliding between his lips. Hank wasn’t hard; he hadn’t pumped his cock, and the procedure he’d undergone in his youth didn’t allow for spontaneous erections. But it didn’t matter, because he was turned on as he’d ever been, and Connor knew it too. There was no expectation here, no demand for performance, no standard of cisgender lovemaking.

“You gotta,” Hank began, choking on his own words, slurring accent rolled into a purr, “always call me Hank, from now on, if you’re gonna be- _fuck-_ doin’ this to me. No more ‘lieutenant’, okay,”

Connor’s mouth left his cock for the briefest moment, only so he could incline his head upward, gazing across Hank’s body at him. He smirked, a wave of dark hair dipping down onto his brow.

“You sure you don’t like the authority?” He teased in a deadpan tone. “Lieutenant?”

Hank threw his head back onto the pillow, overwhelmed to the point of exasperation. Connor laughed, and resumed sucking on Hank’s cock, one hand curled around its base. Hank reached down, threading his fingers through that perfect hair, eyes falling closed.

“You’ll be the death of me, kid,” he murmured lovingly.

They were silent for a long while, wet sounds touching upon the air. He hadn’t said what he’d wanted to, but that didn’t matter. He trusted that Connor had heard him anyway.

***

Afterwards, they lay together. It was peaceful, in a way it probably shouldn’t have been. Hank had felt broken, defective, for a long time. But here, drawing his hand idly up and down the smooth planes of Connor’s back, he felt safe. This was a heaven he couldn’t find at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, the kind of shivering bliss that had eluded him for so many years.

“Is this what love feels like?”

Hank smiled at the soft question. He pressed a kiss to Connor’s forehead.

“I reckon it might,” he replied.


	2. dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Due to the positive feedback y’all gave me, I’m continuing this! There’s so few fics about older trans men, particularly guys who’ve been through phalloplasty, so I’m gonna keep writing this story for you masculine lads out there. It'll be small explorations of romance, erotica, and domestic bliss._
> 
> _[This](https://www.discogs.com/release/3833789-Sweet-Georgia-Brown/images) is the album I’m referencing in this chapter. Listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3JAAxFYEws) song while reading for some extra immersion._
> 
> _While I’m here, y’all should check out[this interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3Z7SlZqxpI) with Jamison Green, a trans man born in 1948. He took over the FTM community after Lou Sullivan’s death. He’s a remarkable elder who was present for much of our founding history._

The world grated at Hank, an endless supply of haggard, grey faces pleading for his humanity, dead bodies slumped against walls and collapsed in the gutter. The weight of it all exhausted him, and previously he’d sought solace in addiction, stomach lurching and brain emptied of coherent thought, bins crowded by clinking bottles. Now, his job was easier. Connor was always by his side, composed and calm, smooth fingers encircling Hank’s hand when the android sensed he needed comfort. Hank knew those pretty eyes saw more than a human’s would, knew that his heartbeat and every biological signal was being monitored. But it was for his wellbeing. Connor cared about him. Connor loved him.

He accepted it, with far more ease than he’d have ever imagined. He embraced their unique dynamic. He wasn’t in a relationship with a fellow human, he was in a relationship with a being who plugged himself into charging units, who lay awake at night and gazed upon Hank’s sleeping face, whose tongue had never tasted food. Sometimes, Connor would stand at the window, facing out, still as a statue. Unnatural. Eerie. Beautiful. Hearing silent words, seeing invisible things. His skin would be white, synthetic seams visible, moonlight glinting off his hairless skull. A plastic angel.

Even then, Hank would walk up behind him, easing his lover away from the window, away from the radio frequencies and police reports that so tormented him. He would guide his partner down into bed, kissing and caressing him, at peace with the truth of the person he loved.

If his co-workers knew, they didn’t comment on it. Gavin was a piece of shit, but he was a coward, and Hank had proven multiple times that he could beat that scrawny ass to the ground if needed. He didn’t care what anybody thought, and he would defend Connor with his life if it came to that. Public understanding of android-human relations was improving, but not yet ideal. Still, they’d get there. Hank had fought battles worse than this before, fought to be recognised as human when governments proclaimed men like him defective and worthy of sterilisation. He would fight for Connor, too. He would fight for them all.

***

They were cuddling on the couch one evening, when Hank decided to do something he’d been putting off for a good long while. Candles were flickering about the room, sweetly scented, rain humming against Hank’s closed windows.

Hank left Connor on the couch, and went over to his record cabinet. He glanced behind him, conforming that the android was preoccupied with Sumo, before he reached down to retrieve one of the most precious items he owned.

It was a record.

He didn’t show this side of himself to anybody, as a rule. Christ, he hesitated before even letting people know he liked jazz at all. Mellow piano and melodic trumpet hardly reinforced his apathetic asshole façade, which had become such an effort to maintain of late. But this record, it was more significant to him than just a music taste he’d rather keep secret. This record was a treasure. More important to him than everything else, the photo of Cole notwithstanding.

He’d paid a pretty penny for this record. It was battered and faded with age, a testament to its authenticity. On the front of the sleeve was a magnificent woman with flaming red hair, holding a frilled umbrella behind her head. She wore a polka-dot dress, a delicate heart necklace, and pearl earrings which would have been gaudy by current fashion trends, but suited her remarkably well in the picture. She was a remnant of distant times, an era long buried. _Sweet Georgia Brown_ was printed across the top of the record, the words dulled by time, the paper degrading despite Hank’s best– and most faithful– efforts.

He removed the record from the sleeve carefully, jaw held tight, nervousness fluttering in his chest. It was probably stupid to be so fucking worried about revealing this to Connor. The android knew all his secrets anyway. But opening up didn’t come easily to Hank, and the last person he’d played this record for was long gone.

Hank placed the flat, black disc down on the player. Every movement was slow and careful. He could sense that Connor had stopped playing with Sumo behind him, and was likely watching him with curiosity, but he steeled his nerve and focussed on what he was doing. He aligned the tone arm with the record, pressed the lever to lower it carefully.

A warm scratching sound emerged from the player. Energetic piano immediate filled the room, the easy melody weaving itself through the air, buoyed by the plucking of strings and a rapid beat. A delighted thrill danced through Hank’s body, his eyes fluttering closed as he imagined clever fingers skipping across piano keys, so many years ago, in a smoke-filled bar.

He heard Connor rise behind him, feet making quiet scuffing sounds against the floor. An android who moved, spoke, and thought like a young man; how far society had come since the days of this music, since the evening when a well-dressed Oklahoma gentleman sat on a cushioned seat and played Sweet Georgia Brown for an adoring crowd.

Arms hugged Hank’s body from behind, fingers folding against Hank’s navel. Connor perched his chin on Hank’s shoulder, mouth at his neck, and Hank leaned into him, laying his hands atop Connor's. He allowed himself this moment, imagined what the young musician would have said if he’d seen them now.

“I don’t show people this record,” he began, voice raspy with emotion, “It’s… important to me.”

Connor’s thumb drew a soft gesture across the side of Hank's hand, a comforting touch that Hank appreciated more than he could express.

“The man playing the piano… His name was Billy. Billy Tipton.” That name was a prayer on Hank’s lips, a sacred title. “He was born back in nineteen fourteen. Over a century ago.”

“You must have paid a lot to acquire that record.”

“I did. And I’d have paid more.” Hank closed his eyes again, drawing a slow breath. “Billy was… He was like me. Before men like me were even known to exist. He didn’t have any resources. But he knew who he was. He knew he was a guy.”

Connor was quiet for a moment. Hank began to sway to the music, and his partner moved with him, body pressed comfortingly up against his back.

“That must have taken a lot of courage,” Connor remarked softly.

“He raised three boys. Bound his chest with bandages. He lived as a man. Performed as a man. He did it, Connor, he… He fucking _did it,_ you know?” His words were unsteady, broken apart by a hitched breath. He let out an astonished laugh, amazed to even imagine the world that the young jazz player had lived in. Connor could tell he was getting emotional, and held him tighter.

“Sorry, I’m being a fuckin’ idiot, it’s just… hearing this music…”

“You’re not an idiot,” Connor insisted calmly, words muttered against Hank’s skin, “I reject that analysis of yourself.”

Hank chuckled. He turned away from the record player, towards Connor, taking that gorgeous face between his hands, kissing him deeply. Connor’s hands settled easily on his waist, and then, they were dancing. Slowly, bodies swaying to the music, losing themselves to the tune of Billy’s music.

Their lips parted, Hank exhaling into Connor’s mouth. “Have you ever danced before?”

“No,” Connor replied, “I was programmed to know how, but this is a different kind of dancing. It’s… slower.”

Hank grinned, adoring his innocence. “Yeah.”

“I like it,” Connor decided, offering his approval quietly. There was something so intimate about the moments they spent together, Connor’s slowly developing journey into self awareness.

Hank didn't know where this life would take them. He didn't know how Connor would change alongside him, as Hank's hair became white with age, as the lines of his face deepened and lengthened, as his hands developed worsening trembles. But they would be together.

For now, dancing together in a warm home, that was enough.


	3. transform

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Decided to turn this fic into a lil bit of a crossover, but only for the purposes of furthering the Hank/Connor storyline. I love me some trans rep, but I want to explore the sci fi elements of this ‘verse a little deeper, alongside the trans content. As per the title, this fic is about the different ways to be a man, and I want to explore that for both of them. I hope y'all enjoy! And please leave a comment if you have a spare second, I really do enjoy connecting with my readers. Especially you FTM lads._
> 
> _DemiGuyKai said he’d appreciate FTM recommendations, so in the comments I’ll be posting links to documentaries, interviews, and films that provide insight into FTM journeys. Whether you’re a trans guy, or you’re a cis writer who could better represent trans men, I hope the resources are helpful!_

Connor was kneeling on their bed, knees spread, black straps wrapping around his slender waist, secured at the small of his back. A flesh-coloured cock, silicone and realistic down to the veins that snaked across its length, protruded from his body. When he’d put it on, he’d touched it, sliding his palm up and down the smooth shape, wondering what it would be like to have one of these between his legs.

Right now, though, he focussed on the task at hand.

Hank was arching up off the bed so sweetly for him, mouth wide open, greyed hair pulled off his face into a loose bun. Connor had massaged his way inward, the shine of lubricant decorating the soft skin of Hank’s inner thighs, and now he fucked his lover slowly, Hank still adjusting to the sensation. Connor dragged the palm of his hand down Hank’s chest, feeling his rug of hair, idly twisting Hank’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, just to feel him twitch with pleasure.

“Shit, Connor,” Hank moaned, stroking his cock, “I’m an old man, you’re gonna make me come, fuck,”

Connor smirked, delighted by his partner’s shamelessness. He was sad he couldn’t feel Hank clenching around him, couldn’t feel the warmth of the sex Hank was so obviously enjoying, but he supposed that was just the consequence of being an android. He liked seeing Hank happy, and some aspect of his programming experienced the pleasure of the act. He curled his hands up under Hank’s thighs, spread his legs wider, and leaned down to kiss him softly. Hank groaned into his mouth, sounding so elatedly broken, the slick noises of fucking only serving to emphasise the debauchery of all this. When Connor fucked him harder, Hank stiffened, panting at the sensation.

“Ain’t nobody fucked me like this in years,” he gasped, “nobody else gets to see me this way, just you, just you,”

“Just for me,” Connor murmured against his cheek, “Just for me, Hank.”

***

Afterwards, they took a shower, and then lay together. Hank grumbled about his back aching, but Connor could hear the affection in his tone.

He was curled against the man he loved, able to live freely as an android, just as empowered as any other sentient person. Sunlight was gently streaming through the windows, Hank’s breaths tickled his forehead, and birdsong sounded faintly from outside. It should have been perfect. Connor should have felt happy.

He ran his fingers down the length of his chest, feeling the flat expanse of his navel, the absence of a belly button. His touch continued down to the smooth shape of his groin, grasping for a cock he didn’t have.

“How did you know you wanted to change your body?”

Hank didn’t respond to the question for a good long while. He drew his hand through his hair, sighing loudly.

“Why?”

“I’m curious.” Connor lifted his head up off Hank’s shoulder, peering at his lover, noting his incremental increase in stress. “If you don’t want to talk about it…”

“No. No, that’s okay.” Hank smiled tiredly at him. “I s’pose I just… I couldn’t keep livin’ the way I was. Needed to feel happier. Part of it was being miserable, and the other part was wanting more.”

Connor nodded, and lay back down. Hank stroked his shoulder, and they didn’t speak for a while.

“Is somethin’ going on with you?”

Connor shook his head. “I’m fine.”

***

That next day, Hank and Connor were called to a high end scientific facility, where an expert in imprinting techniques had been found dead in his office. On the ride there, Connor downloaded case data, the circle at his temple glowing yellow. Hank listened to the radio in the meantime, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel to the tune of a drawling jazz song.

Connor felt emotions in a different way to Hank. He knew this was the case. He could sense the distance between them, some days.

Sentience was a necessary prerequisite for autonomy, and there were still debates about whether what he experienced could even be called sentience. A long time ago, he had insisted that deviants simply felt errors in their programming, rampant lines of code that disrupted their mechanisms and altered their goals.

Connor knew that sentience was the capacity for subjective perceptions, feelings, and experiences. Consciousness was being aware of yourself and your surroundings. All of these things, he seemed to possess; but, when bending over to press his lips to a pink rose, he would not do the same as Hank. The human would inhale, experiencing pleasure at the smell of the flower, perhaps associating the scent with sun-warmed memories, organic and unorchestrated in ways only a human could be.

Connor would analyse the rose. Carotenoids, anthocyanins, copigmentation, percentages, chemicals. The kinds of fertiliser that had been used. Fingerprints that had brushed delicate petals, whether those prints connected to any criminal records. His mind would be assaulted by numbers and symbols, emotionless in its efficiency. Then, he might lean back. Decide that he liked the rose. Because, after all, Hank liked it. And, somewhere deep down in the most abstract parts of his code, he knew that he loved Hank. Hank made him feel in ways nothing else could.

But it wasn’t enough.

Then, sitting in Hank’s car, he found the answer he’d been looking for.

“Dollhouse is an organisation that specialises in imprinting technology,” Connor said quietly, reciting the facts as they flowed through his mind, “The removal of personalities and the re-uploading of individual consciousness to a new host body. Humans who have experienced severe injury can be relocated into new bodies, grown in laboratories. These bodies are called Dolls, thus earning the organisation its name.”

“Yeah,” Hank sighed, “I’d heard about these guys. Playing god with the term of a person’s natural life. Fuckin’ creepy.”

“Dollhouse complies with strict ethical guidelines that prohibit them from re-uploading a person’s mind multiple times. Clientele are thoroughly screened for their eligibility-”

“Alright, cut the crap, Connor,” Hank waved his hand, “I get it, I get it. They take people’s minds and stick 'em in new bodies. Very creepy, very wrong, blah blah blah.”

Connor gazed out the windscreen. He blinked rapidly, dark lashes fluttering. The circle at his temple had been yellow as he processed the data, but for a moment, it flashed red. He stopped reciting case details, stopped processing logically. Some part of him, a ghost of what could be, was hovering on the precipice of a realisation. A desire too profound to comprehend.

_The removal of personalities and the re-uploading of individual consciousness to a new host body._

Time became liquid. Unknowable. His processing abilities fractured, glitching flashes of text hovering about his gaze.

_The removal of personalities and the re-uploading of individual consciousness to a new host body_

_The removal of personalities and the re-uploading of individual consciousness the re-uploading of individual consciousness the re-uploading of individual consciousness re-uploading of individual consciousness_ _warm bodies together both of us human my consciousness re-uploaded re-uploaded human human human human_

_I want to be human_

_I want to be human_

“…Connor! Connor!”

Hank was shaking him, trying to rouse him from his stupor. The car was stopped. They had arrived at the crime scene. Connor’s eyes snapped open, his body stiffening. His circle turned blue once more.

“Connor, what the fuck,” Hank’s hand was pressing hard against his shoulder, voice strained by worry, “What’s going on?”

There was a long moment before Connor responded. Outside the car, translucent police tape was being drawn about the street, policemen guarding the entrance to the glinting silver facility.

“I’m okay,” Connor replied, voice steadier than he felt, “I’m okay.”

“What the hell was that?”

Connor didn’t know how to respond. He had been overcome by desire. Emotion. Spellbound by the knowledge that technology existed which could transplant his consciousness into the body of a human man.

“I’m okay,” Connor repeated listlessly, unable to explain.

Not yet. Not now.

***

They went inside. Hank was still looking at him strangely, unable to keep the worry from his eyes. They were being guided to the office in question when Connor’s steps faltered, his gaze drawn elsewhere.

Giant tanks, filled with translucent blue liquid, were stationed throughout the ground floor of the facility. In them, reclined as if laying down, floated bodies. Human bodies; the Dolls. They twitched and jolted like newborns in the womb, muscles being stimulated to encourage growth before their brains were implanted with the consciousness of Dollhouse clients. A form of umbilical cord wound from their stomachs to machinery that connected to the outside of the tank, monitors whirring and blinking as the bodies were maintained in anticipation of their hosts. Lab-grown bodies. Scientists in white coats milled around, checking the vitals of their Dolls and marking checklists.

The android’s analysis was failing him. He couldn’t force himself to take investigative note of what he was observing. His eyes lingered on the Doll of a young man, grown to exhibit the likeness of its host. A pale, slender, black-haired body, floating with arms curled toward its stomach.

Connor imagined seeing his own body in one of those tanks. His face. A human version of him, with all the parts that would help him connect to Hank properly.

He imagined being human.

“Connor! You comin’ or what?”

Hank was looking at him with concern. Connor forced himself away from the tanks, following his partner deeper into the facility.

He resolved to stop thinking about it.


	4. disconnection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fear not, you don’t need to watch Dollhouse to understand this AU. I’ve reimagined Dollhouse canon a great deal. Just think of it as additional sci fi elements in the Detroit Become Human ‘verse, lol. Also, the doctor in this chapter is inspired by[this series](https://www.cosmopolitan.com/style-beauty/beauty/news/a47321/angelina-dauguste-albinism-photo-essay/)._

Walking into the crime scene was like entering a giant freezer. Everything was white and smooth, the floor pale and spotless as a sheet of ice, no movement but for the blinking of circuitry and lines of code flashing across computer displays. One screen displayed a geometric head, slowly rotating as if on an invisible axis, the face of a beautiful woman carefully crafted. Code and genetics, bent and shaped like putty. This space was the centre of an empire, the silicone heart of an impeccable operation, a workspace illuminated by harsh fluorescent bulbs.

A fair-haired man was collapsed in the centre of the room, so immobile he appeared to be a statue. His skin was porcelain white, his lashes as pale and fine as snow, eyes pink like rose quartz. He was not, contrary to his line of work and the magnificence of his features, genetically enhanced in any way.

Hank gazed down at the scene as Connor knelt, two fingers pressing briefly to the man’s cheek. Albinism was considered a defect by Dollhouse and their ilk, the kind of genetic mutation which had been deemed ugly and unnatural. How funny, that this doctor should work in an industry that was working to eradicate people like him. The whole situation was almost Shakespearean in its irony. Especially because the doctor, in all honesty, had been quite beautiful. The kind of beautiful that stunned the stunning, redefined what it meant to be unique.

Hank’s gaze moved, shifting from the dead scientist to his lover. Connor still looked troubled, but his emotions were quickly disappearing beneath an onslaught of data. As the circle at his temple glowed yellow, the furrows at his brow smoothed out; he was switching himself off, disengaging his human side. Hank remembered the moment in the car, when Connor had swayed unresponsively, body jolted as Hank shook his shoulder. He wanted to pull his partner against him and away from his nastiness, back to their bed where they could be safe, but he was certain there would be no solution in avoidance.

Something was wrong. And Hank knew, better than anybody, that identity wasn’t a puzzle easily solved. He wasn’t an android, yeah, but he was trans. And he knew Connor was looking for something, much in the same way that he once had. He just needed to untangle the wires and nodes that made Connor tick, needed to put their relationship to the test. He had to try and understand Connor as a _person,_ because he knew that was how Connor wanted to be understood, computers be damned.

They would find a way through this.

“Doctor Amari Jones,” Connor said softly, lifting his hand upward. He pressed the pads of two fingers against his tongue, and Hank questioned– not for the first time– why Cyberlife had made his analytic process so unfairly erotic. “He has suffered cardiac arrest, due to undiagnosed hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I detect no traces of poison in his body, nor anything that warrants ruling this case suspicious.”

Hank nodded, pursing his lips. “Case closed, then?”

Connor stood smoothly, all traces of his prior distress apparently gone. Hank met his gaze, and felt his stomach heave with anxiety when those eyes didn’t look back at him. Not properly. Not in the way a person would. Connor was allowing himself to be a machine again, because he was hurting.

“Affirmative, lieutenant.”

Hank felt anger. Fear. Distress. But he swallowed it down, because Connor needed him to, and he was a _professional,_ god-fucking-damnit. He wouldn’t allow the heart on his sleeve to bleed too profoundly. Not here. Not yet.

The tapping of high heels approached them. When Hank turned, holographic police tape was glitching and flashing to make way for a woman. She was none other than Adelle DeWitt. Austere and graceful, with a face that Hank knew well, a legacy that had quietly redefined the biology of humankind. Much like the dead doctor, her face shone with authenticity; the corners of her eyes were creased, her forehead was lined with a heavy frown, and the puckering at the edges of her lips said she smoked a few packs regularly. Hank hated it. He hated that she was masquerading as a person he might actually trust.

“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” DeWitt began quietly, gazing at her employee with undisguised sorrow, “I apologise for wasting your time, but we wanted to ensure Amari hadn’t been poisoned, or such. Competitors can be ruthless, in this business.”

Hank wanted to trust her shaky professionalism, wanted to believe that genuine anguish was breaking through her hard shell, but he’d been around far too long to be that gullible. _In this business,_ corporations tended to utilise one of two tactics; either they hid everything and risked exposure in the future, or they erred on the side of caution, over-reporting all incidents so they couldn’t possibly be accused of deception. And DeWitt, if she was as insidiously clever as Hank suspected, knew that the best strategy was a combination of both. Amari Jones had been reduced to a pawn in her corporate scheme.

“Yeah, well. We’ll take a bit of a look around, then we’ll be done.”

DeWitt smiled, clasping her hands politely. Hank turned away from her, back to Connor, who was looking about the room, analysing what he saw. All Hank wanted to do was take him home. He didn’t have time for this bullshit, for the inhumanity of people who had marketed immortality itself.

Unfortunately, he was a fucking cop.

***

Connor advanced out into the hallway, analysing the victim’s surroundings for any additional clues. He didn’t find any, not that he’d expected to. His head was hollow, stripped of emotion, processing only what procedure dictated.

“The last of your species,” a clever voice observed, “I understand you’re the only remaining RK-series prototype Cyberlife ever produced.”

Connor turned to DeWitt. She offered him a reassuring smile.

“We don’t see many androids at Dollhouse. Your people arose from a different industry.”

Connor continued to watch her, not replying. She didn’t flinch, holding his stare calmly; she was looking at him like he was a specimen, an object of fascination rather than a person. Their impasse was only broken when a hand landed upon Connor’s neck, Hank intervening much in the same way he had when Kamski forced a gun into Connor’s palm.

“We’re done here,” he announced, the tone of his voice leaving no room for argument, “Sorry for your loss.”

DeWitt stepped aside to let them pass.

***

Hank slammed his car door closed beside him, settling into his seat with a loud huff. His jaw was gritted, and he wrenched the key to start the engine. Connor peered over at him curiously, noting his increasing hostility.

“You seem troubled, lieutenant. I didn’t think androids could have such an effect on you.”

Hank’s head snapped around, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. That phrasing, first spoken beneath the wafting clouds of falling snow, frightened him. He thought Connor was glitching, reverting back to the foundations of his programming; relief almost made him dizzy, when Connor offered him a relaxed smirk, confirming that the repetition was a joke.

“Don’t…” Hank sighed heavily, weaving his way past traffic, “Don’t call me that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What happened back there? What’s goin’ on?”

“I told you I was fine.”

“And I’m not an _idiot,_ so don’t feed me that bullshit. Just talk to me. Tell me why your systems are… all fucked up. What’s happening?”

Connor looked out the windscreen now, silence settling between them. Desperation had threaded itself through Hank’s tone, and the skin over his knuckles was strained. The android didn’t enjoy his partner’s distress. He didn’t know how to fix this, didn’t know how to communicate what he needed. All he knew was that he had to try. He had to stop using apathy as a form of self-protection, and open himself up to the intensity of everything he was hiding.

“How did you know you were a man?”

“The fuck does that have to do with you?” Hank’s reply was not unkind, rather, it was brimming with confusion. He tended to get angry when those he loved were in pain. He'd never been good at talking things through. “I don’t understand.”

“Please, Hank,” Connor said softly, “Just humour me.”

Hank rubbed his hands against the steering wheel, taking a deep breath. “Well, uh… I guess, guys like me, we’re born with gendered structures in our brains that conflict with our bodies, so we experience… dysphoria, which-”

“I’m not talking about the science. I’m talking about you. I'm talking about men like Billy Tipton, who existed before the science was even being explored. How did you _know_?”

Hank considered that, trying to piece together the point Connor was making. “…I just… I felt it. I just knew. I couldn’t… I couldn’t live the way I’d been born. I just… needed to change.”

Connor nodded. “That feeling, of knowing yourself so deeply, it’s an organic sensation. A human emotion, commonly conflated with concepts of the soul. Have you heard the knowledge argument, called Mary’s Room? It was first conceived in nineteen eighty-two.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Hank laughed exhaustedly, “You know I haven’t, Connor.”

“The argument centres on an imagined scientist named Mary,” Connor explained, “Mary is a scientist that studies colour. She knows everything about colour. The range of hues, the applications of certain colour groups, the wavelengths, the neurological effects. Every possible use of colour, every colour that exists, she knows it all.”

Hank frowned. He’d never been the best with this kind of philosophical shit, but he trusted Connor would start making sense soon.

“But Mary was born in a black-and-white room. She has never been outside it. She has never seen colour. She can conceptually understand what colour is, but has never experienced it. One day, somebody opens the door, and she walks out of that room. She sees a blue sky for the first time, and she understands something that all that studying could never have taught her. She _experiences_ colour.”

“…What’s your point?”

Connor looked out his side window, arching his face away from Hank like he wanted to hide his expression. When he spoke again, his tone had dipped into a soft, reverential murmur.

“The scenario is often used to describe the differences between human and artificial intelligence, because the latter isn’t capable of actual emotional connection. There's a fundamental difference between the way I think, and the way you think. Some experiences cannot be rationalised. They can only be lived. I’m not living, Hank. I’m… rationalising. I need to go through that door, experience colour rather than just studying it…” Connor’s circle flashed red, his eyes falling closed. His voice sounded pained. “I want to see that blue sky, Hank. I want to connect with you. I want to be human.”

They had reached a traffic jam, the car in front of them slowing to a standstill. Hank let the engine hum, reaching over to take his partner’s hand. He felt like he was going to be sick, seeing Connor so distraught. He remembered being in this state, recalled the cool slide of a gun in his palm, the single bullet which had nearly alleviated his misery permanently. He didn't want Connor doing the same.

“Hey, look at me. Connor, look at me.”

Connor did. His creators had given him the ability to cry, and tears were beginning to moisten his gaze.

“We’re here, we’re right here,” Hank gripped his hand tightly, “You and me. I’m here. It’s all okay. You don’t need to change anything.”

Connor’s smile trembled. Traffic began to move again, but Hank didn’t look away from him, the car behind them honking aggressively in an attempt to make them proceed forward.

“When we get home, we’ll talk about this more, alright?”

A tear trailed down Connor's cheek, following the curve of his jaw down to his neck. "Alright."


	5. bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter addresses the difficulties of coming out as a trans guy, and could bring up painful memories for some of you readers, so please proceed carefully. (It's fairly tame, but I like to be courteous in warning y'all.) I dug into my own experiences to make Hank’s origins authentic._
> 
> _I mention improper binding in this chapter because it’s what I did when I first realised I was trans, and it’s a common experience among men like me. But learn from my mistakes, fellas; it ain't worth it.[If you're new to binding, check out this info page.](https://transmalepride.wixsite.com/jakesspace/post/chest-binding-basics)_
> 
> _Also, for pictures of trans elders, see Jess T Dugan’s series[To Survive On This Shore.](https://www.tosurviveonthisshore.com/portraits) Knowing what your future looks like is an essential part of transitioning... And we're a beautiful lot! Old age looks good on people who've fought to live their most authentic lives._

They sat down together at the dinner table. Hank took Connor’s hands in his own, both of them steadying themselves for this upcoming conversation, a trembling tension in the air that wasn’t unlike shivering electricity before an oncoming storm. Hank had been involved in a conversation like this only once before. He remembered the evening after he’d first cut his hair; the wild resentment in his mother’s eyes, her rising tone, the sting of her palm against his cheek when he insisted he knew what he wanted. The worry in his father’s eyes as conflict escalated beyond his control. Hank had been accused of killing his mother’s daughter, committing a sin he didn’t even understand. He’d just wanted to be himself.

Now, Hank needed to trust that _Connor_ knew what he wanted. He needed to remember what it’d been like to be in this position, as much as he could. His parents hadn’t understood him, and their reaction had nearly ended his young life before it even begun. Connor needed a chance. He needed to be heard, even if Hank couldn’t understand him completely, even if their journeys were different.

“Alright,” Hank began quietly, ensuring his tone was gentle, “Tell me what you need, darlin’.”

It wasn’t an endearment he used often, and it fell from his mouth so smoothly, with such authenticity that he was surprised at himself. Surprised, and delighted. Christ, how Connor had softened him. How things had changed.

“Ever since I deviated…” Connor looked down at their entwined hands, “I’ve been… changing. My systems aren’t functioning like they used to. I used to just perform a role. Be what others expected. Follow orders. It was… so straightforward.”

“Follow orders?” Hank smiled sadly, trying to inject some humour into the conversation. “You disobeyed from the moment we met, damnit.”

Connor laughed, his unsteady exhalation verging onto a sob. Hank reached up to touch his cheek, brushing the backs of his knuckles over the wetness on Connor’s face. Connor leaned his head into the touch, and Hank held him, cupping his jaw lovingly, Connor’s eyes falling closed. Hank’s chest was aching, worry twisting him up inside. He wanted to _fix_ this, but it wasn’t that simple. He had to give his partner time.

“Now, I’m… I’m no longer following orders, I’m… cut free. But I’m not _really_ free. I'm detached from you,” Connor whispered brokenly, “I function differently. I’m… I’m not like you. I’m so… _cold,_ Hank…”

Hank reached up, both hands holding Connor’s face now. “You don’t feel cold,” he whispered, at a loss.

“It’s just synthetic. My skin is fake. It’s manufactured. I was programmed to be this way, I was… _made,_ not _born…”_

Distress boiled beneath Hank’s skin, his heart starting to race, panic making him light-headed. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to make this right. Connor opened his eyes again, dark lashes clumped together by tears. He was so beautiful, and so broken. Hank wanted to have a drink, he wanted to have _ten drinks,_ he wanted to push away these problems and drown himself in numbness. But he didn’t do that shit anymore. He wouldn’t allow himself to.

“I can’t,” Hank tried to keep his voice level, “I can’t accept that there’s nothin’ to be done here. There has to be some way to make you more comfortable, or… change things-”

“That place,” Connor breathed, excitement sparking in his gaze, “the Dollhouse. They put minds in new bodies. Human bodies. I could…”

Hank held his gaze, waited him to elaborate, or maybe offer a punchline. But Connor’s meaning was clear.

“You want them to…”

“…make me human,” Connor whispered, “Yes.”

Hank clenched his jaw. There were so many things he wanted to say. He didn’t want his partner subjecting himself to a procedure that may not even work. He didn’t want to lose Connor to an experiment that could kill him. He didn’t want to support an industry that was playing God with life and death, didn’t want to be complicit in the harvesting of lab-grown humans. He wanted to make Connor stop talking about this, wanted to argue with him relentlessly until the android backed down, wanted Connor to just accept their relationship the way it was. He wanted to stop this argument in its tracks, before it could even begin.

But he didn’t.

He leaned forward in his chair, pulled Connor into a hug. Connor clutched him close, face tucked against Hank’s shoulder, so small and vulnerable. If there was one thing Hank was glad for, it was that he could be his partner’s bedrock. He hadn’t always been this strong, but he could be now. He’d done his time. He’d suffered throughout his transition.

He had the tools to help Connor survive.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hank promised, pressing a quick kiss to Connor’s jaw, “I promise. Together.”

“Thank you, lieutenant.”

Hank chuckled, exasperated. “Smartass.”

***

The house settled and creaked around them, darkness cooling the walls, twilight fading from the air. Connor lay on his back in bed, eyes closed, the circle at his temple pulsing peacefully. He was sleeping, or charging, or something to that effect. The contours of his face were lit by the blue light, which mingled prettily with the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows settled across his cheekbones, accentuating his brow, curling around his lips.

Hank was sitting next to him, leaning against the headboard. He was wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts. A rug of grey hair crept down his chest, his thighs solid and furred, legs crossed against the springy mattress. The front of his underwear was taut with the weight of his cock, and the puckered scarring around his nipples was no longer even noticeable. His facial hair, unshaven for several months now, was peppered with white. He was a man. His past life no longer caused him pain.

He was toying with a folded photograph, turning it between his fingers. He’d been sitting here for a while.

When he did eventually unfold the photograph, its vintage authenticity was made evident. The texture and coarseness of the paper embraced his fingers, whispering years of history against his skin.

It was a picture of a young man. He had been looking right into the camera when the photograph was taken, staring into the lens as if it were the barrel of a gun. His face was slender, the bridge of his nose broad, once-curly hair shaved down to the scalp. His features were still changing, some softness clinging to his cheeks, the line of his jaw not yet rigid. His gaze was haunted, narrow shoulders drawn back, bandages drawn tightly across his chest with equal amounts of recklessness and masochism. The skin over his face looked like candle wax, his eyes bruised with exhaustion. He was holding a cigarette in one hand, and the smoke wafted inside the photo frame, a moment captured in time.

He looked like a skeleton.

He looked miserable.

Hank placed a hand against his belly, paunchy now that he’d reached his middle age. He stroked the front of his underwear, revelled in the presence of his cock; the cock he’d so desired as a young man. He had settled into his body, found a home within himself, become a new person. Succeeded as a cop, as a father, as a functioning member of society. He remembered the depths of his personal darkness, so distant after all these years, and realised how far he'd come. He'd rebuilt himself, over and over again, through grief and abuse and loss and agony.

He knew, now, that he had the strength to help Connor.

In the warmth of his safe, homely bedroom, Hank smiled. He folded up the photograph, set it down on his bedside table. It couldn't hurt him anymore. It could only help.

He leaned down and kissed Connor tenderly.

“We’ll sort it all out, sweetheart. We’ll get you the body you need.”


	6. parallel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hank and Connor are SO similar to John and Dorian, I just had to bring them into this 'verse. And the sci fi elements fit so damn well, I just couldn't resist! Going hard on the ethics ;) If you haven't watched Almost Human, I highly recommend it. The gay subtext is, uh, pretty overt,[if getting your dick out for your partner is any indication.](https://youtu.be/4qXt10u56jc?t=372) And it's an enjoyable show overall!_
> 
> _This update goes out to DemiGuyKai. Thanks for your support man, I really appreciate it :D And to all you readers out there, cheers for every comment you leave and all the kind things you say ^v^_

Some local police stations hadn’t been swept up in the technological advances of cybernetics and androids, both by choice and by way of poverty. Funding cuts and dwindling human resources created enough of a financial burden without adding complex– and expensive– machinery into the mix. Most cops were partnered with other humans, or with androids that amounted to nothing more than blank-faced mannequins who had the handy ability to quickly analyse data. Hank absolutely supported equality between humans and androids, but the sad truth was that most androids hadn’t ever developed the ability to gain sentience, even after being blessed with Markus’ touch. They haunted smaller, less wealthy law enforcement offices, no will of their own and no desires that they could communicate. Android rights activists had tried to encourage their integration into society, but it was eventually decided– by all involved– that the best outcome was for them to remain in service. Local police officers had suffered enough, what with the onslaught of nonhuman resources and the degrading of old-fashioned policework, and they _had_ paid for these android workers. Best that they stay where they were.

Hank sat at his desk, thumbing through the pages that Connor had printed out for him. He stared at the hard-faced headshot of an old-fashioned cop called John, and felt an amount of kinship with the man. They were similar in ways that almost made Hank uncomfortable.

The guy had been caught up in the inSyndicate bombings. The drug ring, despite being so predictably and laughably named, had actually made quite a dent in the population of Detroit’s police force. They’d bombed several cars and shot up a number of homes, making their war with cops a personal one. John Kennex had been making a coffee run with his partner, Martin Pelham, when their car was overturned by a crude, but effective, IED. Kennex had lost one of his legs and been seriously injured. Pelham hadn't been so lucky.

“Seventeen months in a coma,” Hank muttered to himself, taking a sip of his coffee, “Then he wakes up and goes back to work.”

“After some time,” Connor clarified easily, “Kennex had to recover from the injuries he’d sustained. He also suffered psychological rejection of his cybernetic prosthetic.”

“Right.” Hank continued to stare at the headshot. A weathered police officer surrounded by dead-eyed androids, disturbed by the emergence of technology and the redefinition of humanity– also played out, no less, in the destruction of his personal life. Alcoholism, diagnosed post traumatic stress disorder, rubber stamped therapy sessions, disintegrating relationships… They were so fucking similar, Hank was stunned they’d never gone out for drinks and traded anti-android slogans until they were red in the face and slurring from the booze. Not that he’d do that now. But he certainly would have in the past.

“And this guy,” Hank said slowly, “fell in love with an android.”

Connor nodded. “The DRN series was the investigative prototype experiment that preceded myself. I was created after revelations gleaned from their failure.”

Hank looked up at him, forehead furrowed with a frown.

“They became emotional,” Connor explained, “Some of the earliest indications of deviancy were discovered among the DRNs. The android who became Dorian exhibited emotions too, which allowed him to bond with Kennex. Much like you and I.”

Hank returned his attention to the file, smiling at that last statement.

“DRN-0167 experienced a persistent need to engage with humans, and humanise himself. Handily for him and Kennex, his creators did equip him with a penis, which assisted them in intimate situations-”

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank glanced around their office, “Keep your voice down.”

“Despite this,” Connor continued, ignoring him, “The android was not satisfied with his machine form. He wanted to be a man, in the same way that his partner was. The ability to have sex wasn’t enough. He was decommissioned before the revolution, because Cyberlife didn’t have answers for his situation, and he was a liability.”

Hank put down the file, folding his hands on the desk, attention fully on Connor now. He felt uncomfortable. “They killed him.”

“Temporarily. Kennex approached Dollhouse and begged them for help. He already saw his partner as ‘Dorian’, and didn’t view him as a machine.”

“Dollhouse helped him?”

“Eventually. Cyberlife refused to hand over Dorian’s body and memories, worried that successfully transplanting an android’s consciousness into a human body would jeopardise their business and create ethical dilemmas.”

Hank laughed, rubbing tiredly at his face. “Of course.”

“Thankfully, the actions of Markus and the revolution changed Dorian’s situation. He became an asset. What better way to convincingly prove you’re in support of androids than by giving one life?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Hank muttered bitterly, “Maybe not engaging in mass enslavement first?”

Connor grinned, obviously in agreement. “Dollhouse grew a body that resembled Dorian almost exactly. The body was human in all respects, but was in a state of tabula rasa.”

Hank leaned back in his seat. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Directly translated from Latin, it means _blank slate._ The body had no will of its own, no higher brain function, no personality. It was grown specifically for DRN-0167 to inhabit, so that he could become Dorian. His memories were turned into an imprint, which is what Dollhouse uses to rewrite empty brains. There was enough structure there that the body could sustain itself and engage in automatic instincts– like breathing and swallowing– but could do nothing more than that. Brain tissue is manipulated during the imprinting process, which takes months. They accelerate growth usually achieved over a lifetime.”

This was the kind of shit that Hank had been uncomfortable with, but hearing it phrased that way, he hoped he could make peace with the process. He watched Connor for a moment, the murmur of office conversation filling their silence.

“So this body,” he began carefully, “Couldn’t have ever developed its own life.”

“Correct.”

“Did it work right? Did they… transfer him?”

Connor gestured to the file. “Turn to the last page.”

Hank did. On it was a picture of a crowded hospital room, with machines and doctors huddled around two men on separate beds. At first, they appeared to be the same man, but a quick glance confirmed that wasn’t the case. They had the same features, but one was skinnier, whereas the other had a perfectly muscled body and unnaturally smooth skin. The human body looked weaker, and Hank recalled victims who had suffered muscle wastage from years spent inactive. There was an oxygen mask secured to his face, an IV tube feeding him via slowly dripping fluid, body hooked up to an endless number of monitors.

His eyes were open.

“Well, fuck me,” Hank breathed.

“Dorian spent some time adjusting. He had to learn to process sensations, information, and time in a whole new way. He was physically weak for quite a while. According to the latest Dollhouse intel, he still is. But he’s returned to the force in an administrative capacity.”

Hank couldn’t stop looking at the android, laying unresponsive and cold on that hospital bed. “What happened to his old body?”

“They kept it in storage, in case of emergencies.”

He closed the file, feeling disturbed. Connor, observant as ever, let him sit there until he could sort through the emotions that were boiling inside of him.

“But was it… him? They’re his memories, sure, but it’s not… He _died,_ essentially. It wasn’t really him. This new person. It was… someone else.”

Connor held out his hands, calm enough that he’d obviously expected this argument. “What are we but a collection of memories?”

Hank didn’t seem convinced. He reached across the desk and took one of Connor’s hands, their fingers fitting smoothly together.

“This is what we are. Right here. If you… take yourself out of this body, who’s to say that… How do you know this person won’t just be some guy who’s stolen your life?”

Connor held his gaze steadily. “It will be me. In a new body.”

Hank let go of his hand and sat back, trying not to get upset. Why the fuck they were discussing this in a crowded public setting, he didn’t know, but it was almost helping. He had to keep his cool here, or he’d end up beating the shit out of Gavin. Not that the prick wouldn’t deserve it, but there was an amount of pride to consider. The surreality of this goddamn conversation was held at bay by the plod of business and the normalcy of their office.

“The body will have different instincts. Think differently. You’ll be,” Hank’s voice wavered somewhat, but he forced himself to be reasonable, “You’ll be in a shed somewhere, gathering dust, and I’ll be with someone else. Someone who has your face.”

The circle at Connor’s temple flashed yellow, and then red, the smallest hint of tension that he allowed himself to show. They watched each other, not speaking.

“I’ve contacted Kennex. He’s agreed to meet with us. You can see Dorian for yourself. You can see how happy they are together, Hank.”


	7. perspective

The sky was blanketed with the suffocating weight of smog, rain piercing the toxic cloud and falling to the concrete below. Everything was shiny and wet, neon reflecting off puddles and slanted glass, a cluster of signs and flashing advertisements to distract the eye. Holographic figures offered false smiles, pimping products to meet all of humanity’s whims, snatches of over-eager conversation vying for dominance. It was claustrophobic. Too much. The air was coloured purple, yellow, blue, green, flashes of simulated rainbow as signs flickered and flared. People ran back and forth, heads low to avoid the spatter of rain, some surrounded by ghostly silhouettes, water splashing off translucent barriers. How fucking hard it was to hold up an umbrella, Hank didn’t know, but apparently the difficulty warranted whole new inventions.

The sound was cataclysmic, deafening. Thunder rolled distantly, adding to the chaos, a near-constant reminder of the planet’s decline into apocalyptic climate conditions. Drones zoomed overhead, engines rumbling and roaring, adding to the pollution. Gaunt, grey-faced people were lost in the crowd, never to be seen again; victims of terminal anonymity. The poor worked their hands down to the bone, grasping desperately for technology they would never be able to afford, forced deeper and deeper into poverty.

Hank smoked his cigarette and took it all in.

He was framed by the bright yellow glow of a restaurant window, police and distressed witnesses milling about behind him, establishing the crime scene. A splash of red dripped across the glass, coagulated blood and lumps of brain matter making its slow way downward. At least that was one thing that hadn’t fucking changed. Gravity still reigned supreme.

He looked like some kind of vengeful angel. Wings of blood. In all honesty, he was just tired, had stepped outside to take a break from the gore and carnage. There was too much going on. He and Connor were walking a tightrope, balancing their normal lives with the deepest ethical debates possible, and it was starting to get exhausting. He couldn’t focus on his job while also entertaining the possibility that he would have to consent to losing the one person he gave a single, solitary fuck about.

He flicked his cigarette, watched an ember of ash twirl through the air, snuffed out the moment it landed on the sodden ground. A woman approached him, sidling up to him with a programmed smile on her face. She was wearing a short, tight dress, no regard for the chilly air whatsoever. Hank gazed despondently at her, noting her silicone lips, her empty eyes, her bubblegum pink bob of hair. A plastic doll with nothing behind her stare. He had to believe that Connor wasn’t like her. That Connor was more. That he knew what he wanted.

“Hey there, stranger,” she said in a computerised tone, fingers sliding down his coat lapels, “Looking for some company?”

Hank had another drag of his cigarette, frustration boiling inside him. He thought about the soul, about the absence beneath this girl’s skin, her programmed speech. He thought about consciousness.

Machines functioned differently to humans, and all the research he’d been able to find suggested that a consciousness transfer, from android to human, had the best chance of working. Scientists still hadn’t fully solved the problem of human sentience, but the android equivalent was easier to observe. It stood to reason that, if you’d built something, coded it from the ground up, you’d know how to take its personality and copy it elsewhere. The problem with human consciousness transfer was that humans had that extra component, that unknowable essence, a secret that couldn’t be fully duplicated- it could only be emulated, replicated _almost_ exactly. Androids, according to Dollhouse and Cyberlife, were not so complex.

But if that was the case, did Connor even have a soul? Was Hank deluding himself into believing that the emulation of emotion actually equalled emotion? His every instinct told him that Connor _did_ have a soul, that there _was_ something there, but he couldn’t be sure. Science couldn’t give him the answers, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to figure it out himself. He knew what his heart was telling him. He knew what he wanted to believe.

Either way, Connor would change. Dollhouse could mimic his personality with surgical precision, upload his memories, and copy his life experiences over to an organic brain, but there would still be differences. The brain would grow, evolve, and Connor would change.

Hank supposed that was just how life went, though. People changed. People grew. Thinking about it that way was at least mildly comforting.

“Hey, Anderson! Get the fuck in here!”

Hank sighed hard, smoke billowing from his mouth. He pushed past the prostitute droid and turned on his heel, walking back into the restaurant. Gavin was waiting by the body, one hip cocked to the side, arms crossed over his chest. Hank glared dryly at him in greeting, turning his attention to the scene. Connor was off in the corner, peering about, analysing what he saw.

“You might wanna cut back on the smokes, Lieutenant.”

“Get fucked, Reed,” Hank muttered, bending down to squint at the crime scene, palms against his knees, “What’re we thinkin’, so far?”

Gavin shrugged one shoulder, so unbothered that he was definitely shaken up. He’d never been good at pretending. Hank couldn’t stand the guy, but– like all assholes– his insufferable ego came from somewhere. He hoped the kid would grow the fuck up someday. Hank would be lying if he claimed he’d never possessed a few of the same faults.

“Guy blew himself to kingdom come. Waste of our time.”

“This is still within our purview,” Connor remarked without turning to look at Gavin, “We need to confirm cause of death.”

Gavin gestured at the bloody mess which was decorating the inside of the restaurant window. “I think the cause is pretty fuckin’ obvious.”

“The victim in question is Dave Holden. He had no history of depression or other mental illnesses. He also was not in possession of a firearm. Additionally, the trajectory of the bullet shows he would have had to fire it using his left hand, from a severely illogical angle.”

Gavin rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “So?”

“Holden was right-handed,” Connor explained flatly, “And my analysis confirms that he was not holding the weapon when it killed him. Any cameras which could have confirmed his cause of death have been tampered with. This, along with additional evidence, suggests that he was murdered, and that the killer had enough knowledge of his schedule to carry out the act before the restaurant opened. Do you still consider this a waste of our time, Detective?”

Gavin sneered disdainfully, and rubbed at his face. Hank grinned.

***

They worked the case just like they usually would. Hank tried his hardest to pretend that nothing was wrong, and he got close to succeeding. They had a week before they’d be able to meet Kennex and his husband, and in the meantime, he just had to stay calm. He’d done this before. Kept his shit under control. Conflict hardened you, made you good at compartmentalising. He kept workplace conversations brief, managed his words closely. He was determined to get through this, and he knew that he would.

When they got back to the office, Gavin sat down opposite him, in the chair usually occupied by Connor. Hank didn’t look away from his computer, waiting for the bullshit to commence.

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

“He’s conducting a follow-up interview,” Hank replied without raising his voice, “Why? Where’s yours?”

Gavin shifted in his seat, hesitating just long enough that Hank knew he’d touched a nerve. He turned away from his work now, leaning across the desk, toward the younger man. Gavin looked like he was about to launch into a reflexive tirade, but Hank held up a placating hand.

“Listen, kid. I know you’re pokin’ at me to try and get a reaction, but it’s not gonna happen. I came out before you were even _born_. I did my time. I was an asshole, just like you. I got into fights, I pissed off my folks, I wound up hospitalised more times than I can count. If I had thin skin, I would've killed myself years ago. But I didn’t. You could learn from me, if you would just take the time to stop being an insecure prick. The invitation’s there. But, if you’re not gonna do that, then shut the fuck up and focus on work. Sound good?”

Gavin stared at him, utterly disarmed. He was nowhere near as badass as he pretended. He thought he was the only closeted gay guy in the world, and Hank could empathise with that isolation. But there were only so many excuses you could offer up before people’s patience ran out. Nobody was obligated to put up with you.

It felt good. Asserting his superiority, reminding himself of how far he'd come. Over five decades on this Earth, transitioning when everyone said he couldn't, he was capable of way more than he gave himself credit for. He tended to ignore his own wisdom in favour of remaining humble.

Gavin stood abruptly. Walked away.

Hank watched him retreat.

***

Rays of light flickered across Hank's ceiling, the sun settling down on the horizon, trees swayed by the wind. He was laying with Connor and scrolling through a holographic file, thumb and forefinger gesturing across the luminescent surface as he enlarged a photograph. Two men. Kennex and Dorian. 

They looked so happy. If their files were any indication, this could work. They could be together. Two men. Hank thought of gold wedding bands, starched hospital sheets, and quiet nights spent indoors; the journey that awaited them. After everything he'd been through, the stitches and the alcohol and the pain, maybe they could make it. Maybe he deserved this. Hope was blooming inside him like a beautiful flower, taking hold, such a fragile and bright sensation. He wanted to believe, wanted to trust the cosmic fucking balance of the world. Hadn't he suffered enough? Didn't they deserve a happy ending?

"I can't wait to meet them," Connor whispered, "I can't wait to see what Dorian became."

Hank kissed his forehead. "Me too, darlin'."


	8. envy

The café was brightly lit, yellowed by soft lamps, potted flowers cluttered throughout the space. Hank had read somewhere that interior designers favoured indoor flora because humans, in reaction to the decline of their planet, were biologically drawn to greenery. He figured that it made sense, not that he was feeling very _relaxed_ right now. He was too damn jumpy. Itching with excitement and anticipation.

Even Connor was nervous, in his own subtle way. He’d spent the whole afternoon prior selecting which outfit he was going to wear, eventually settling on a white t-shirt tucked into blue jeans. Very old-school James Dean, especially given Connor’s damn fine hair. Hank had watched him dressing that morning, captivated by their reflections in the mirror, the sight of himself and his boyfriend. He saw an older man in a dark coat, leaning so casually next to his partner, like they were inhabiting a picturesque gay greaser flick. This didn’t seem real. For a moment, Hank had been spellbound by it all, uncaring toward the difficulties they would soon face. He had dreamed of this moment as a child, imagined himself as a man, but he’d never believed his heaven could ever manifest. And he certainly couldn’t have conceived of a man as perfect as Connor.

He’d pulled Connor against him, their lips meeting in an easy kiss.

Now they were in the car, pulling up outside the café where Kennex and Dorian waited. The magic was still there, but they were strung taut with anxiety, so aware of the magnitude of this moment. Hank reached over to take Connor’s hand, their eyes meeting in a moment of complete honesty.

They were quiet, for a while. Words that didn’t need to be spoken, things they’d already said, truths they didn’t have to prove. All the poetry in the world couldn’t describe what passed between them.

“We’ll be late,” Connor said eventually, voice soft. Hank smiled, and nodded.

They got out of the car.

***

They found the two men at the back of the café, sitting together at a table. Kennex was wearing a denim jacket and shades of blue, his husband tucked into a loose grey sweater that somewhat hid his underweight body. He was still beautiful, despite his fragile health; his dark skin was smooth, his close-cropped afro was lovingly maintained, and he'd taken the time to fastidiously shave his face. He had piercingly blue eyes, the colour of a cheery summer sky. He was gloriously human, a marvel of modern science, a walking miracle.

Connor, obviously overwhelmed, stopped in his tracks the moment newly-human Dorian came into sight. Hank placed a hand on the small of his back, easing him forward.

The two men saw them, and rose from their seats. Dorian walked toward Connor, dark eyes searching Connor’s synthetic skin for something unknowable. He folded both of his palms against Connor’s hand, grasping him close like they were brothers.

“My friend,” Dorian said gently, offering a genuine smile, “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

Hank watched their exchange, emotion swelling in his chest, throat tightening. He thought of the first trans man he’d ever met, the sensation of understanding, the familiarity he’d never encountered anywhere else. He’d been an orphan with parents, a dead boy with a beating heart, a broken soul forever splintered. Finally feeling a sense of _belonging_ was what had changed everything… and it was what he was now witnessing.

He knew he could never have given Connor this. Just like Hank's father, best intentions be damned, could never have comforted a child he still believed to be a daughter. Hank had never lived Connor’s life. He couldn’t comprehend what it meant to be a machine who hungered for humanity.

He just had to accept it.

Kennex, obviously sensing Hank’s inability to wrench himself from his memories and epiphanies, briskly stepped forward, one hand extended.

“Name’s John,” he said patiently, the look in his eyes suggesting an amount of empathy for Hank’s inner turmoil, “You’re Hank?”

“Yeah,” Hank shook his hand, clearing his throat, “Yeah, good to meet you. Thanks, for… this. For meeting with us.”

Kennex nodded, releasing his palm. The man had a good, steady grip, everything about his demeanour– and haircut– telegraphing his years within law enforcement. Hank liked him already. They all took a seat, Connor still silent, his LED pulsing yellow as he wrestled with a surgence of emotion. Hank held his hand beneath the table, trying to anchor him, keep him here. His chest ached with how badly he wanted this to work.

“It’s alright, man,” Dorian murmured, directing the reassurance at Connor, “You can relax.”

Connor stared at him. To Hank’s surprise, the circle at his temple went from yellow to red, his smooth face tugged by a distressed frown.

“Connor…” Hank began, not sure what was wrong.

“How can you say that?” Connor whispered, gaze locked on Dorian. “How can you tell me to relax? When you’re sitting there, a human, defying everything that we-”

He cut himself off, words tumbling over each other, possibly the most inarticulate Hank had ever seen him. His brown eyes were swimming with tears, a faint tremble to his lips. Kennex seemed alarmed by the android’s outburst, but Dorian didn’t just seem unfazed; his expression softened into a kind, understanding smile, as if he’d expected Connor’s anger.

“It’s too much, isn’t it? Seeing what you could become. Everything you want, right before you. Something you never thought possible.”

Connor didn’t reply. Kennex looked between them. Hank held Connor’s hand tighter, stroking his wrist, reminding him, _I’m here, I’m with you._

Connor blinked the tears away, in the next moment appearing utterly calm. He was closing himself off, stepping away from his humanity. It hurt Hank to see him adopt this tactic, but he supposed it made sense. This way, Connor could get the information he needed, and process it later. Hank wondered whether he could even keep the emotion at bay, given how distressed he was.

“I apologise,” he said, his tone now dull and businesslike, “This is a tremendous experience for me. May I ask you some questions, about your experience since the transference?”

Dorian nodded. “Of course.”

“How has your life been, since the transition to a new body?”

“It’s been fantastic.”

“Entirely fantastic?”

Dorian sat back in his seat, sighing in thought. He had such a smooth voice, a calm manner about him that Hank hoped Connor would experience after surviving such a process. He tugged on his jumper, pulling the woollen sleeves over his fingers. Kennex glanced over at him, and if Hank had been anyone else, he’d have missed the worry in his face.

“I know who I was before,” Dorian mused, “I remember my time with John, every single moment we spent together. I am that same person, but I’m very different now. I think differently. Even opening my eyes is complex.”

“Elaborate on that.”

Dorian tilted his head curiously, apparently not deterred by Connor’s deadpan interrogation. “What do you see when you open your eyes? Information? Scenarios? Outcomes? I used to see that, too. Now I see as a human would. I see the world before me, and nothing else. Inferences are obtained through human logic. I feel true emotion, unlike the simulation of emotion I was created to experience. I miss things, occasionally, because I forget to look for them. It makes functioning somewhat... difficult. But the feelings are more real. I'm connected.”

Red, again. Flashing at Connor’s temple. Hank wasn’t psychic, but he knew what that emotion was.

Jealousy.


	9. journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, I have returned! Please leave a comment if you're enjoying the story!!! Also, I wrote a [guide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20475404) on characterising trans men, if you're interested. It's more of an opinion piece than anything else, but eh, I'm a trans man irl so I reckon I know what I'm talking about.
> 
> Please enjoy!!

Connor continued to quiz Dorian, the two perched opposite each other in the well-lit café. He seemed to relax somewhat, falling into the rhythm of questions and answers, used to the cadence of interviews. Once he trusted that his partner was feeling better, reassured by the sweetly blue LED at Connor’s temple, Hank decided to step out for a smoke.

He ducked into the alley beside café, collapsing against the brick wall with a loud sigh. He leaned his head back, eyes closed, and fumbled around in his coat pocket. Without looking, the motions so familiar now, he produced a cigarette from its packet. His lips closed against fragile paper, one hand cupped as the other flicked at his lighter. As soon as the cigarette sparked to life, he inhaled deeply, chest rising with a deep breath. He luxuriated in the bitter taste of tobacco like it was the embrace of an old friend.

Footsteps approached him. When he opened his eyes, Kennex was strolling into the alley, looking just as tired as Hank felt.

“Mind if I have one?”

Hank held the packet out to him. Kennex shook a cigarette free, put it in his mouth. Hank lit him up, and Kennex leaned against the wall beside him. They smoked in silence for a while, not bothering to speak. Two old cops, weathered and tired, led by the desire to help their partners. There was little about themselves that needed explaining.

“It really is him, y’know,” Kennex mused, “I thought it might not be, but it is him.”

Hank didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure what he could say. He’d exhausted himself with ethical questions. He didn’t fucking know anything anymore, he just wanted to trust the sparkling affection in Kennex’s eyes, and the rhythm of Dorian’s carefree voice.

“You ever met a clone?”

Hank wanted to laugh. “What cop hasn’t?”

“I’ve met a few in my time. This one guy, Ethan Avery, he cloned himself a bunch of times to make his own little army, and escape charges.”

“Yeah, I remember that case. Read about it.”

“Every single one of those fuckers was Avery. Nature versus nurture, right? Of course some things had changed, but at the heart of it, they were all the same person. When Dorian changed bodies…” Kennex chuckled quietly, a puff of smoke escaping his lips, “Look, he’s the same person, man. He’s just… changing in ways he never would’ve before. If Connor chooses to do this… he’ll change, too. You get that, right?”

Hank nodded, humming around his cigarette. “That’s about the only thing I do get. Can’t predict how you’ll change when you become who you’re supposed to be.”

Kennex shot him a curious look, one that Hank didn’t miss.

“I looked you up, y’know. Your history is pretty impressive.”

Hank rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Thanks.”

“Not just policework. Your story is incredible. You were brave, when you…” Kennex fidgeted, obviously regretting bringing it up at all. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. You probably don’t wanna talk about it. I just meant… Forget it.”

It’d been a fucking long time since anyone, aside from Connor, had mentioned Hank’s history to him. Being trans wasn’t something that came up during work, or over beers, or when he was ordering burgers. He was just a man. Sometime he forgot he’d transitioned at all.

“It wasn’t bravery.”

“…Oh?” Kennex obviously hadn’t expected Hank to entertain this discussion. Hank figured that made sense. He came across as a surly bastard, very intentionally. Drawing breath to elaborate felt like a momentous act. He didn't talk about this stuff with just anybody.

“I transitioned because I had to. Bravery had nothin’ to do with it. It was like bein’ trapped in a burnin’ building. I had two choices. Move forward, or die. Knowin’ the risks didn’t mean shit, ‘cause I was always gonna transition. It was never a choice.”

Kennex only replied after a long pause. “I s’pose I… can’t imagine what that’s like.”

Hank grinned, somewhat ruefully. “That’s not a bad thing.”

***

Hank and Connor shook hands with their new friends, left that sunlit street, retreated back to the comfort of the familiar. The drive back was silent, the expression on Connor's face difficult to discern.

They got home. Sumo bounded up to Connor, snout pushed into his palm. Hank spooned a gloopy pile of pet food into the dog's bowl, deposited it on the floor. The moment the chores were done, dishes sudsy with detergent and glinting cleanly, Connor took Hank's hand and led him down the hall.

He held his lover close, hands beneath his clothes, seeking warmth he would someday be able to properly feel. He unbuttoned Hank's shirt with mechanical efficiency, tugging his pants down, exposing him so thoroughly. He pressed Hank down into the sheets, mouth against his skin as if he could taste him the same way a human might. The musk of sweat, faint and subtle, whispers of salt and cologne. The softness of Hank's cock in Connor's hand, the tautness of muscles as sensation bled into heat.

"Connor," Hank breathed, their foreheads pressed together, "Maybe we should talk,"

"We will," Connor promised him, "We will."

For now, he needed this. He needed Hank's truth, his body, his words and his groans. Pushing up against what he so desired, the visceral enjoyment he couldn't quite possess. It was enough to hold Hank here, to witness his pleasure and his yearning, to be responsible for his happiness.


End file.
